Could Anything be More Destructive of Poetic Form?

Sylvia Plath
thought it would be difficult
to accommodate a toothbrush in a poem.
In a novel, yes.
(A novel is a rag bag,
will take anything you care to throw at it.)
But in a poem?
Almost impossible!

What is it then, I wondered,
that a toothbrush is or has
that is so devastating
of poetic form?

Could it be by some association?
The open mouth, for instance...
How unromantic, unpoetic that can be!
Responsible for putting dentists
right up in the stratosphere
of mental breakdowns.
Topping every list.

Its total lack of looks, perhaps?
(neither have I ever seen it 
in a still life... or brought in
to a gallery as something found.) 
A urinal, yes. But toothbrush? Never!

I have tried to disprove Plath's contention. 
Here are some of my attempts:-

At the dawn of day
my toothbrush comes into its own...
Oh the spring water!

(Well, do I still agree with her?
I'm damned if I am sure...)
Let me try two more:-

On that one side - pain
even so there too I clean
with morning vigour!

Of difficult names
the spring weeds must rank highest --
next to the toothbrush!

O.K., they're fiendishly clever,
those Japanese,
so I'll try something else;-

Against the rubber tongues of cows
the toothbrush in the hands of men...
(With apologies to Ted Hughes - "Thistles".)

And from Ezra Pound (Canto XLV):-
with usura
hath no man a glass and a toothbrush on his bathroom wall

O.K., I confess, I don't know.
I merely assemble the evidence.
You, dear readers are the jury,
what thinketh thou?